


Big Enough to Fuck On

by betp



Series: From Tumblr [7]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Established Relationship, M/M, beanbag chairs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-25
Updated: 2015-10-25
Packaged: 2018-04-28 03:06:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 915
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5075410
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/betp/pseuds/betp
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p></p><blockquote>
  <p>16. things you said with no space between us.</p>
</blockquote>
            </blockquote>





	Big Enough to Fuck On

Stiles’ hands are scrambling and sweaty, and Derek’s mouthing at his collarbone when Stiles realizes what he wants. And it isn’t this. “Wait a second,” he pants. 

Derek stops fucking him, freezes with his cock up Stiles’ ass. Looks up at him, mouth open and lids heavy. “Wha’s wrong.” 

“Le’s getta beanbag chair,” Stiles says. Derek blinks slowly. Somehow he manages to project everything he’s thinking within this blink. This blink says, _a beanbag chair?_ It says, _what’s wrong with you?_ It says, _I was so close to coming, why would you do this?_ And then it says _a beanbag chair?_ again. That’s what this blink says. Derek’s dick does feel amazing, but Stiles is distracted by the prospect of a beanbag chair. “Yeah, a really big one. I wanna beanbag chair big enough we can fuck on it.” 

Derek thinks about this, propped up with Stiles’ thighs around his waist. “I—” He shifts. “I can’t talk about this right now.” He goes to pull out, but Stiles clings to him with his legs. “What—” 

“Can you still come?” 

“What?” 

“Can you still—” 

“I—probably, what’re you—” 

“Finish inside me.” 

Derek drops his face onto Stiles’ chest, and fucks into him again. “You’re so fucking weird,” he wheezes. But he hasn’t softened a bit. 

:: 

Derek likes to slip into a trancelike doze after sex, likes to spoon Stiles and stare off into the ether. Stiles lets him do this, usually, goes to sleep or cuddles him or watches tv. Once or twice he’s jerked off onto Derek’s stomach during this interim, like he’s going for some kind of most-orgasms-achieved-in-one-sitting award. This time, however, he’s looking at his phone. 

He sighs, after fifteen minutes or a half hour of this, and Derek grumbles, irritated by the distinctly sad aroma wafting off of Stiles. It’s killing his post-coital reverie. “What.” 

“Nothing,” Stiles glooms. 

Derek grabs at his ribs, like he’s trying to peel them out; Stiles makes a hilarious yelping noise and elbows him. A significant amount of roughhousing later, Derek has him pinned sideways across the mattress. “ _What_ ,” he says again. 

“My beanbag dream is dead,” Stiles tells him breathlessly. 

He’s hard from squirming against Derek in the sheets, and Derek palms at him just to make him arch. “Why.” 

“I found some—damn it—” Stiles can’t get leverage against Derek, physically speaking. “I found some, some like I wanted, really big—” 

“Big enough for fucking,” Derek confirms. See, he was listening. 

“Right, but they’re like a thousand bucks.” Stiles gasps, because Derek’s biting at his neck. “Umm, I found a website that sells ‘em, for like a thousand, ohh…” 

“Luckily for you,” Derek says amicably, hefting Stiles’ leg up, “I _have_ like a thousand bucks.” 

"Nooo, yesfuckme, no that’s too much— _ow_ , what the fuck—” 

"Sorry—” Derek retracts his claws. 

“You don’t get to _claw_ me just because you have money, Donald Trump—” 

Derek rolls them so Stiles is straddling him, sinking down onto his cock with an intense determination, a flash in his eyes like he’s won. He hasn’t won, and Derek wants him to know it. “We’ve talked about you calling me Donald Trump when my dick’s inside you—” 

Stiles laughs, head dropped back, abs tensing. “It’s so fucking weird that we have, but we _have_.” 

"Right, and we decided—” 

“ _You_ decided—” 

“No, _we_ —” 

“ _Mmmm_ , god, if I listened to everything you’ve told me, ah—” He moves where his knees are planted against the mattress, rocks back on Derek’s dick. “—told me not to say during sex, I wouldn’t be able to say _anything_!” 

"That’s my goal,” Derek tells him. “I get off on silence.” Stiles giggles a little hysterically. “I’m gonna—take away words one at a—” 

“Stop talking stop talking I’m gonna, I need…” 

“See how hot it is?” 

“Shut _up_ —uh, oh god—” 

Stiles rides out his orgasm in relative quiet, nothing but loud breathing and wet skin sounds filling the room. A small smile blooms on Stiles’ face, then. Like something secret, a gift to Derek that he’s hidden from the world. At some point, you really do have to stop talking. 

:: 

The beanbag chair is huge and soft. Stiles has a little trouble lifting it, but that doesn’t stop him from dragging the thing from room to room. This morning Derek tripped over it on his way to the shower. Last night he had to throw it across the kitchen to get to the dishwasher. 

Right now it’s smack-dab in the center of the living room, and Stiles is curled up sweaty and sticky and naked in Derek’s lap, absently licking come off his fingers. The flat-screen tv is playing the ending half of some hokey teacher-student porn. There’s a lot of over-the-top moaning and close-ups on jubbling tits. Derek tightens the ring of his arms around Stiles, reaffirming the sensation of their bodies, together. 

The porn didn’t seem so egregious when they were hornier. Now, onscreen, a uniformly tanned ass bounces on a becondomed erection. 

"Well,” Stiles says, frowning thoughtfully. 

“Yeah,” Derek replies. 

Sooner or later, the novelty of the beanbag chair will dissipate and Stiles will choose a permanent location for it. In the meantime, Derek doesn’t really mind. He spent over nine hundred bucks on it, so seeing it being fervently enjoyed is nice. Especially when they’re using it for its intended purpose; that is, the purpose _Stiles_ intended for it. 

“See, he’s doing that wrong,” comments Stiles, pointing to the tv. 

So he is.


End file.
